A Case for Dad
by Laura W
Summary: Some years after Voyager's return to the Alpha Quadrant, a couple of Dads have a beer and a chat. P/T, implied J/C.


**Note:** This story was written for the VAMB Secret Summer 2012 exchange. My request, from Alpha Flyer, was for: _A story please - with Tom Paris as a focal point. Angst, humour, (b)romance, slash, adventure - no matter. Pairing or no. If you need a starting line, how about "He was a dead man?"_ This was the result, dedicated to Alpha Flyer - and to parents of teenagers in general. :-)

**Secret Summer 2012**

**A Case for Dad**

He was a dead man.

Tom stared at the PADD again in disbelief. No matter how long and hard he looked at it, the information didn't change.

Oh yeah, the man was dead.

He just didn't know it yet. But he was about to find out.

Tom smacked the PADD hard against his thigh. The young Lieutenant sharing the lift with him gave him a look out of the corner of her eye. Tom couldn't decide if it was an annoyed look or a frightened look, but he didn't much care. He glared at her. Her gaze snapped – almost audibly – back to the monitor above the lift doors. Down they went in tense silence, third floor, second floor, ground, Tom slapping the PADD on his leg all the while. The Lieutenant darted out of the lift with a bewildered backward glance and disappeared around the corner.

Tom stomped through the lobby, junior officers scrambling out of his route, and burst into the bright sunshine of the late summer afternoon. He stalked across the glistening Starfleet grounds, clutching the PADD in his hand.

Unbelievable. The gall of the man, the arrogance, were familiar to him. They didn't bother him nearly as much as the unexpected mean streak.

And that's what this was. Mean. Tom was frankly a little shocked by it. They'd been friends for decades, after all. True, they hadn't had the best start, but once they'd returned from the Delta Quadrant they'd settled into a fairly easy relationship. They'd continued to serve together both in space and here in San Francisco, their lives and careers following roughly parallel courses. They'd always had each others' backs.

But this. _This_. Tom smacked the PADD against his thigh again. _This_ defied explanation.

Tom took the Academy office building's steps two at a time, ignoring the groaning protest of his knees. He slammed to a halt at the reception desk. "I'm here to see the Commandant," he announced. "Is he in?"

The receptionist, a young Bolian with fluttering hands, didn't even look up from his console. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Do I _need_ an appointment?" Tom growled.

The receptionist finally looked up, his eyes widening in sudden recognition. "Captain Paris!" he exclaimed. "My apologies. Of course not. I'll let the Commandant's office know you're here." The blue boy's hands stabbed at his console.

Tom softened fractionally. "Thank you," he said. "Ensign...?"

"Brill," the Ensign said, and nodded toward the lift. "The Commandant's aide says you can go right up. He's been expecting you."

"I'll just bet he has," Tom muttered. "Thanks, Ensign Brill." He stomped into the lift – an empty one, this time – and slumped against the back wall for the ride to the top floor.

The Commandant's office was a damn sight different from the sterile environment he remembered from his Cadet days, called in for some infraction or another – which one, he couldn't even remember anymore. The then-Commandant, a dour Vulcan woman with steely black eyes, had expertly sliced through his defiance and gotten him to admit to his wrongdoing by threatening to involve his father. It was dirty pool and he'd never forgotten it, nor the coldness of the office.

The office was still in the same location it had always been – in the corner overlooking the Golden Gate – but decorated now with items Tom recognized: Wood carvings, holos from _Voyager's_ parties, an antique teapot, a copy of Dante's _Inferno_. There was even a holo from Tom's own wedding on the wall, along with holos from other weddings – and dozens of holos of the _Voyager_ crew's many offspring.

Tom barely spared them a glance today. This wasn't exactly a social call.

The Commandant's petite, dark-haired aide gave him a sympathetic look. "Captain Paris," she said. "Nice to see you again. He's just finishing up some reports. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"No."

"Right. He said that when you refuse the tea I should give you this instead." She reached into the refrigeration unit, pulled out a frosty bottle and offered it to him.

Tom hesitated.

The aide raised an eyebrow at him. "He also said he won't tell your wife if you won't tell his."

Tom accepted the beer and took a long drink.

It was good beer, as usual. Cold and refreshing, perfect on this warm August day. The Commandant always had a stash of fine ales within easy reach. This particular brew was smooth and just slightly bitter. Very tasty. Tom wondered where it came from.

Not that it changed anything.

The Commandant was still a dead man.

The inner office door slid open and the bulky, white-haired Commandant emerged. "Tom," he said, and offered his hand.

Tom rallied his anger and shoved the PADD into the outstretched hand. "What is this shit, Chakotay?" he demanded.

Chakotay stared at him for a long, quiet moment. "You can take the rest of the day off, Lieutenant," he said softly, his eyes never leaving Tom's face.

"Aye, sir." The unruffled aide quickly shut down her terminal and started to leave the office. At the last second she darted back, grabbed another bottle out of the refrigerator and handed it to Chakotay.

Chakotay glanced at her with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Seema," he said.

"See you in the morning, sir." She nodded once and left the office.

The two men eyed each other warily. "Drinking on the job?" Tom said. "I wonder what your wife would say."

"Same thing yours would say, I imagine."

"Yeah, but yours could demote us both."

Chakotay smiled grimly. "Which is why we won't tell her. Have a seat."

Tom headed for the inner office, but Chakotay waved him to the couch instead. "Here?" Tom asked.

"Here is fine," the older man said, and pulled around the aide's chair.

Tom knew what he was doing, keeping this out of the inner office where Chakotay would be sitting at a big, imposing desk, and Tom would be slumped in a deliberately uncomfortable chair usually occupied by a wayward Cadet. He appreciated the gesture...but stopped himself before he got too appreciative. Chakotay was a dead man, he reminded himself.

Tom gestured at the PADD in Chakotay's hand. "So," he began again. "What is this shit, Chakotay?"

Chakotay tossed the PADD onto the coffee table between them. "You know I don't make this decision, right?"

"No, but you approve the final list."

"True," Chakotay admitted.

"You could have pushed for it."

"Also true."

"But you didn't. I want to know why."

Chakotay took a long pull of his beer. "She's not ready, Tom."

Tom's mouth fell open. "She's one of the best pilots this place has ever seen and you know it!"

Chakotay's gaze didn't waver. "I know."

Tom clenched his fist. "Then why the hell isn't she on the list?"

"She's just finished her first summer term, Tom."

"For God's sake, don't give me some crap about upperclassmen pining for their spots on the roster, Chakotay. It's supposed to be about who's the best, not who's due."

Chakotay sighed. "Miral isn't ready for Nova Squadron," he repeated. "If you'd step back and look at it objectively, not as her father, you'd see that."

"Why? Why isn't she ready?" Tom stabbed a finger at him. "You tell me, Chakotay, because later, I'm going to have to explain it to her, and I better have a damn good answer. Something better than 'It's not your turn yet.' Because this is going to break her heart."

Chakotay's face hardened. "All right," he began. "I'll tell you. According to her instructors, she has good instincts, but she doesn't combine those instincts with best practices. She can feel her way through every navigational exercise we design for her, but she needs to start using her instrumentation to fine-tune that innate feel for the craft."

"She could learn all that on Nova Squadron."

"She could," Chakotay conceded. "What she couldn't learn on Nova Squadron, though, is how to reign in her temper, curb her impulses and obey her superior officers."

Tom's jaw clenched. "I know she's kind of a hothead, but -"

"'Kind of?'" Chakotay laughed softly. "Tom, she reminds me so much of B'Elanna when I first met her that sometimes I don't know whether to laugh or cry."

Tom crossed his arms over his chest, mindful of the beer. "At least she hasn't threatened anyone with a _bat'leth_ yet."

"That _you_ know of."

Tom's eyes widened. Then he cringed and looked away. "Shit."

Chakotay's carefully neutral expression admitted nothing. Tom wondered who Miral had gone after and why – and how Chakotay had kept it out of her permanent record, which would have triggered a disciplinary review and notification of her guardians.

Tom took another long pull of his beer. "Okay, so she's temperamental and defiant. She's also a teenager. Don't tell me yours are any different."

"They're not. But they're also not Starfleet Cadets yet." Tom looked up sharply at that, but said nothing. Chakotay went on as if he hadn't noticed. "We can afford to let them be a little...willful."

Tom snorted. "That's putting it politely. I heard about Ayita's little stunt at the Parrises Squares tournament."

Tom had been at Utopia Planitia at the time. B'Elanna had told him later, amid gales of laughter, about the girl's highly profane argument with the official, the grudging capitulation, the impossible shot that not only won the tournament but took out the entire judges' stand on the perfect ricochet – and her parents' comical expressions of deep pride and complete horror.

Chakotay shook his head and offered a tight smile. "She is her Mother's daughter," he said.

"You mean cunning and competitive?"

"And mouthy and reckless. Yes." Chakotay stretched his legs out and put his feet on the coffee table. "She'll have to grow out of that defiance if she eventually wants to succeed here. So will Miral."

"You know, Chakotay, sometimes those are the qualities that make all the difference." He rolled the bottle between his palms and nodded toward the window. "Out there on _Voyager_, defiance and competitiveness and intelligence kept us all alive."

"I know. And you know as well as I do that the instructors here don't want to break the kids. But before they become officers who recognize that sometimes it's acceptable and necessary to ignore the rules, these Cadets have to understand why we have rules and how to work within them. For their safety and everyone else's." Chakotay pointed his nearly empty bottle at Tom. "Miral has to learn that lesson. And until she does, she can't be on Nova Squadron. She can't be allowed put her colleagues at risk on an impulse."

The two men sat in silence, finishing their drinks. Deep down, Tom knew Chakotay was probably right. Miral was, in fact, impulsive and defiant. At least she came by both qualities honestly. She was also young, barely eighteen, with plenty of opportunities ahead of her.

Tom placed his empty bottle on the table and retrieved the PADD. He scrolled through it, sighed when he still didn't find Miral's name on the list, and deactivated it. "She'll have a better chance next year?"

"If she learns what she needs to learn," Chakotay confirmed. He set his own bottle aside. "Tom," he said slowly, "she has a hell of a lot of talent. You know that."

"I know."

"If we keep her off the Squadron this year, it might be the catalyst she needs to make some changes. "

"What makes you so certain?"

Chakotay rose and paced to the window overlooking the Bridge. "Remember when we coached the boys' lacrosse team together?"

Tom smiled. Their sons had been twelve then – arrogant, insolent striplings, virtually impossible to control. "Sure."

"We found out pretty quickly that if I worked with Owen and you worked with Ahote, we got a lot further with them."

"Because they were willing to listen to anyone other than their own dads."

"Exactly." Chakotay turned back to look at him. "It's sometimes easier to take advice and criticism from someone who isn't so close to you."

"Especially when you're a kid and convinced you're smarter than everyone else."

Chakotay nodded. "Right. But it doesn't just work for teenagers, Tom."

Tom frowned. "I'm not following you."

Chakotay returned to his chair and leaned his elbows on his knees. He looked up at Tom with an insightful, knowing look Tom had seen many times before. "You said not making the Squadron would break Miral's heart."

"It will."

"Will it really break her heart? Or just yours?"

Tom sat very still. They'd been talking about Nova Squadron for years, he and Miral, talking about the honor and prestige, the opportunities, the notoriety. He'd described the elite flight competitions to her – embellishing only a little – and the rush he got from piloting his craft through the complicated maneuvers, working with his teammates, pushing himself to his limits.

And Tom realized with a start that these discussions had never been "discussions" at all. They'd been largely one-sided affairs in which he'd done most of the talking.

"Damn," he breathed, and ran a hand through his thinning hair. "I've been pushing, haven't I?"

"A little."

"How did you know?"

"Because I'm not as close to her as you are. I can probably see things that you can't."

Tom's shoulders slumped. "Please tell me I'm not turning into my Father, Chakotay."

The older man chuckled. "I don't think there's any danger of that. The fact that you're aware and trying to avoid riding Miral the way he rode you will keep you from it."

"God, I hope so."

"It's clear that she wants to make the Squadron. But it's hard to tell if she wants to make it for herself, or for you. She doesn't want to disappoint you," Chakotay said gently. "Because you _are_ pushing, Tom. And from you, that's not really what she needs."

"I know." Tom stared down at his hands. "None of our kids are going to have an easy time of it, are they?"

"No, probably not. They'll have the same pressure you and Kathryn had, being the children of high-ranking officers, along with all the scrutiny that comes with being the Children of _Voyager_."

Tom looked up. "So what do we do?"

Chakotay shrugged. "Let them find their own way. Let them take their own chances, make their own decisions, and live with their own mistakes."

"And not put too much pressure on them to be just like us."

Chakotay nodded. "We have to try to find a balance between protecting them and fighting their battles for them, just because we're in a position to pave their way. They'll resent that. We can't do it. It'll be hard not to, but we'll just make a point of...keeping each other honest."

Tom cocked his head to one side. "Interesting idea," he said vaguely.

Chakotay shrugged and leaned back in his chair, his hands folded in his lap. "Above all, we have to make sure they know they're loved no matter what."

"No matter what," Tom repeated. "Something my own father forgot along the way."

"Maybe. But you won't, Tom. You're a better dad and a better man than he ever was."

Tom swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat. "Thanks, Chakotay," he murmured.

Chakotay nodded at the PADD in Tom's hands. "She'll be on this list next year. If she plays it right and learns what she needs to learn, she'll be at the top of it. She'll make Squadron Leader as a Cadet Third Class."

Tom's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You think so?"

"I do. She's got a lot of leadership potential. But right now that's all it is: Potential. In another year, it could be something more. In two or three, it could be something extraordinary. She just needs time and space to get there." Chakotay held his eyes. "Time and space that you need to give her."

"I will," he said. Tom tapped the PADD lightly on his thigh. "And...thanks for this."

The Commandant smiled. "You know B'Elanna would have my head if I didn't make time for you and your family."

"So would Kathryn, I think."

Chakotay gave a low, rolling chuckle. "You can bet on that."

"One last question," Tom said slowly. "About the _bat'leth_ thing. How did you–?"

The Commandant pointed at the two empty bottles on the coffee table. "See those? They came as a set of twenty-four. Those are the only two I got to keep."

"Because the other twenty-two went to..."

"Someone who was willing to look the other way when offered a case of authentic Wisconsin microbrew. But just this once."

Tom gave a low whistle. "Van Driesen?" The drill instructor was well over two meters tall and built like a Type I shuttlecraft. The Cadets had called him "Van Dragon" for years. The big man had a well-known weakness for his home state's two main exports: cheese and beer.

"Van Driesen." Chakotay confirmed. "He left me two bottles on the condition that I share one with you."

"Did you talk to her, too?"

Chakotay nodded. "She knows how lucky she was. This time."

"That's pretty gutsy, though. Threatening Van Driesen with a _bat'leth_."

"Gutsy, but costly." Chakotay rose and dumped the bottles in the recycler. "I'll send you the name of the brewer."

"The replacement case will be in your office next week." Tom stood up, too. "Are you all still coming to Owen's party? I know the Admiral of the Fleet gets pretty busy, but she told B'Elanna she'd put it on her schedule."

"She did, and we are. We wouldn't miss Big O's sixteenth birthday for anything."

Tom smiled at the use of the nickname his son had given himself as a toddler. "Good." Then he grinned. "I'm sure Owen will love to see Ayita again."

Chakotay groaned. "He's a good kid, but so help me, Tom, if I end up with that boy as my son-in-law..."

"All in good time, my friend. All in good time." He clapped the older man on the shoulder. "Tell your lovely Admiral I said 'Hello,' and give her a sloppy kiss for me, will you?"

"Get out, Paris, before I have to throw you out."

Tom laughed. "See you Saturday, Chakotay."

He headed out of the Academy building and back across the grounds towards his office in the Design & Prototype building.

He still wasn't sure what he was going to tell Miral about being left off the Squadron. They hadn't talked much since she'd left home for her first term at the Academy. Tom sighed. They hadn't talked much _before_ she'd left home. Looking back, Tom couldn't identify when things had changed between them. It seemed like just a moment ago that she was playing Buster Kincaid to his Captain Proton, sitting on his lap in the pilot's seat of the Alpha Flyer, taking her first steps. He closed his eyes briefly and pictured her running across the backyard to him with a toy shuttlecraft in her hand, pigtails flying.

Now she was a brilliant, independent eighteen-year-old trying to make a name for herself apart from him.

It hurt. He couldn't deny it.

He wondered if his own father had ever felt similar pangs of regret and uncertainty when he realized his son was growing up too fast. Probably not, he decided. They'd mended their fences after _Voyager's _return, but decades later it was still hard for Tom to forget the look of disappointment that crossed his father's face every time he failed to live up to the Admiral's impossible expectations.

Back in his own office, Tom tossed the PADD aside and sat down at his desk just as the comm showed a new message. As promised, Chakotay had already sent the name of the Wisconsin microbrewery. Tom scrolled through the offerings and ordered a case of the same ale he'd just enjoyed in the Commandant's office. As an afterthought, he ordered up a case of late-summer berry weiss he suspected the Admiral might like and sent it to their house. In a few days he and B'Elanna could manufacture a reason to drop by for a visit and a taste.

It just might give them the opening they'd been looking for.

Somebody needed to talk to the Commandant and the Admiral about their son. Idealistic, artistic Ahote was certainly not headed for Starfleet Academy, no matter what his parents assumed. Removed as they were from the boy's daily life, Tom and B'Elanna had been able to see what his parents couldn't: That his hopes and dreams lay outside the family business.

They owed it to the boy – and to their former commanding officers – to relate what they'd observed, all in the name of "keeping each other honest."

Just like Chakotay had been able to see Miral more clearly than her own Dad, and had intervened in his own gentle but pointed way.

Tom smiled to himself. Twenty-five years had passed since Caretaker, and eighteen since their return from the Delta Quadrant. As difficult as the conversation with Chakotay had been, it was good to know that in spite of all the years – and the teenagers and the gray hair – some things had never changed. They all still had each others' backs.

The comm indicated an incoming call. Tom took a deep breath. "No matter what," he reminded himself, mustered up a smile, and pressed the toggle.

"_Dad?"_

"Hey, kiddo," Tom said softly, and then, taking in his daughter's bright eyes and quivering lips, "I love you."

-END-


End file.
